In Jesus’ Sleeping Quarters:

I had a great respect for the doctor and the nurses on the third floor. They showed a tremendous amount of kindness to Tina, and to us.  I took comfort that Tina was well cared for there. But, part of it was, I could not bring myself to accept the truth that Tina was dying, and, like so many days before this one, I sat, I stood, I prayed . . . I sat, I stood, I paced, I prayed . . . I was tortured by the thought of Tina dying so young. It was not rational, but deep inside I believed that as long as she was on the third floor, she would survive. 

It had come to this. One weekend. That is all we asked: that Tina could have one last weekend on the third floor. Then the doctor returned, and our hopes were shredded. Tina cried. Linda cried. Margot cried. Milton cried. I cried. Do not ever let anyone tell you that words cannot kill.  All of us died a little that day, our bodies literally aching with the news that Tina would be on the eighth floor that afternoon.

I blink, and suddenly I realize that I am in our home, in the sunroom. As I look outside, I recall the conversation Linda and I had that fateful Friday. We talked about our feelings as well as the feelings of our friends. Margot felt that the doctors had failed to convince the social worker, and the insurance company to allow Tina to stay on the third floor. Sitting there now in the sun, I recall telling Linda that I could not see it that way. I felt that the social worker and the insurance company were the driving power, and nothing the doctor could say or do would change their minds. Now I reconsider my reaction. Perhaps I was too naïve to think otherwise. Maybe because Tina’s doctor had taken such good care of her, I could not believe she had any part in the decision to move her. Maybe it was because the doctor and the nurses on the third floor were so involved in Tina’s life. 

As the temperature rose in the sunroom, I could almost hear Tina’s plaintive words when told she was going to the eight floor. 

“I don’t want to go to the eighth floor. I want to stay here.” 

She knew how well they treated her on the third floor, and was comfortable with the attention she received. I could not blame her for not wanting to lose the kind treatment by the nurses and staff she had grown to love. She understood what going to the eighth floor meant. She knew the end of her life on this earth was near. Yet she refused to give in, she refuse to give up on her hopes that somehow God would reverse the outcome.

During that year, most of the third-floor nurses had become acquainted with Tina. Most of them knew her case. She was terminal, and their hearts bled for her and for us. I’ve heard people say that doctors, and the nurses are not supposed to get emotionally involved with their patients, but how can they not, when so much suffering, and pain come across their plates? As I observed then, the emotions and involvement of the nurses, and the doctor, did not get in the way of their careful care. Linda and I believe they became a venue that provided the love, and comfort our daughter hungered for in the condition thrust upon her.  

Tina’s words keep coming into my mind—“I want to stay on this floor.” I will never forget that request, that plea. 

What did I say in response? What could I say? 

I told her that we would talk to the doctor and see what we could do about it. How lame that must have sounded to her, but it was all we could promise. We could not change the outcome. Unfortunately, we did not have much influence with the social worker, or the people dealing with Tina’s health insurance. All of us tried, but we got nowhere. 

Again, my mind goes back. I am in the hallway. I am standing by my daughter’s bed. I look at her face. I hear her words. Maybe we were not forceful enough. Maybe we could have talked our way into the gift of a couple of more days. Maybe we could have argued with more conviction. Maybe . . .  maybe . . . maybe . . . In our minds, there were only many maybes. That is what we will take with us forever.  We will take it until the day when we, too, fall asleep in Jesus’ sleeping quarters. For as a Christian, I believe that “we should not be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like those who have no hope. I believe that Jesus died and rose again and so I believe that God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus” (See 1 Thessalonians 4:13, 14). 

I will see Tina again.

I think about that final diagnosis. Again, the doctor’s words rang in my head: It is only a matter of days. 

Although the week had its difficulties, I knew that her prediction would likely prove accurate. I did not have to accept it, but there was too much suffering to ignore it. During the last year and a half of Tina’s life, her condition moved along a sine wave length path that seemed to drive me into insanity. It was almost impossible for me to stand by helplessly, and watch my daughter dying without having a shred of power to change the outcome.